There isn’t a surface in my house that doesn’t have a book on it. My ereader has 86 on it now, and most of those were free. The concept of a reading pile confuses me, as in order to buy more books than I could read I’d have to buy two or three a DAY. I am a fast reader. I am often reading several books at the same time. Some books are favourites that I re-read over and over again, others are one off reads that I can take or leave.
When I say I FUCKING LOVE BOOKS, I mean I FUCKING LOVE BOOKS.
This can be a problem. I have been late for work because I was nearly finished with a book and I just had to keep going. I have stayed up till 6 am reading something. And sometimes good books can so affect me, that they disturb me for days or weeks after I’ve finished. For example, I love ghost stories, but reading a very good one (Dark Matter) while alone in winter was probably not the best plan. Reading the Zombie Survival Guide left me sleeping with a machete under my pillow for seven days (and indirectly is to blame for my writing for In Case of Survival).
I am, in many ways, the stereotype of the bookish, clever girl who lives too much in her head. I am socially… different, and throughout much of my life my best friends have been between the pages of books. When I read, I am not just reading a book – if it’s a good one, I am watching the lives of people, real people, who I loe and hate… I have cried at books, screamed at them, thrown them across the room in rage, been forced to put them down because I’m emotionally exhausted.
I was a pretty lonely kid. Children like me usually are, so my world was full of books. I’ve always been grateful for that. Loneliness was bad enough, if I hadn’t had an imagination and a love of reading to carry me through, I might have been a statistic. Reading and books made my childhood bearable.